


Elegy for a Lost Boy

by what_alchemy



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Childhood, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Post Reichenbach, Siblings, eulogy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-22
Updated: 2012-10-22
Packaged: 2017-11-16 19:38:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/543106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/what_alchemy/pseuds/what_alchemy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I taught both my boys to appreciate formula and exactitude — expression is messy, expression is trite, expression is boring. What could I possibly say on a day like today? That no parent should ever bury her child is as insulting as it is obvious, and my dears, I abhor the obvious.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Elegy for a Lost Boy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [goddessdster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/goddessdster/gifts).
  * Translation into Русский available: [Элегия о погибшем мальчике](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1542383) by [krasnoe_solnishko](https://archiveofourown.org/users/krasnoe_solnishko/pseuds/krasnoe_solnishko)



English is a hopeless thing, isn’t it? A language so pestilent with cliché that its speakers can barely express themselves without this or that tired phrase blooming from their lips like tumors. Even love is but a weary abstraction, its declaration merely an eternal refrain, the quote of a quote of a quote. Who is the uncited author of love? My eldest son, in the throes of an uncharacteristic sentimentality, told me the day his brother died that that anonymous author indeed has a name, and it is “mother.” 

You’ll find him shameless in manipulating me to speak today — I have never been one for words, and he knows it. I taught both my boys to appreciate formula and exactitude — expression is messy, expression is trite, expression is boring. What could I possibly say on a day like today? That no parent should ever bury her child is as insulting as it is obvious, and my dears, I abhor the obvious. I wish to hear nothing more of platitudes; why should I spout them while my son lies dead? Instead, I will simply tell you a story only the author of love could know. This is not the madman dashing about London, not the vilified fraud nor the haloed martyr — this is my son, and this is the story of how he came to complete the unit of we Holmeses.

Albion and I had endured many disappointments before Mycroft came along. Though it grieved us to leave Mycroft without a companion, we resigned ourselves at the time to being a family of three. I cherished our boy, perhaps spoiled him. Imagine our surprise, our elation, and yes, even our anxiety, at falling pregnant six years later, in our forties. So, we were cautious, circumspect. We told no one, not even our own parents. Then, the months passed without undue bleeding, without telltale cramps, and we grew hopeful that this pregnancy would not end as so many others had. Mycroft, who was as observant and tactless a child as he is a man — don’t blush, darling — told me in the autumn that he liked that there was so much more of me to hug. Albion laughed and told me that now was as good a time as any to cease our nervous secret-keeping.

“You’re going to be a big brother,” I told Mycroft. “You’ll have to take good care and teach your baby brother or sister all the things you know. Won’t you like that?”

“I shan’t,” he said, and stuck out his tongue. “I shall sit on them. I shall tell them blue is orange and left is right. I shall fill their bed with crumbs and frogs. ”

My boy was not terribly imaginative, not like his brother would become, but during those final months we were regaled at length with all manner of tales he invented to drive his future sibling away. He wished even to bribe the fairies, but they never did come when he called.

Sherlock arrived early and squalling, dramatic from the start. He was jaundiced and underweight, confined to an incubator, but Albion brought Mycroft to visit him anyway.

“What shall we call him?” we asked.

“Zinjanthropus,” Mycroft said. Evolution’s elusive missing link. 

“I think ‘Sherlock’ may be less cumbersome,” Albion said. “How about it, son? Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes?”

“I hate him,” Mycroft said, and buried his face in Albion’s chest. 

Mycroft did his valiant best to pretend Sherlock didn’t exist. But Sherlock did not share his pique; as soon as Sherlock could crawl, he crawled after Mycroft. As soon as Sherlock could speak, Mycroft’s name was on his lips. As soon as he knew to seek comfort for little hurts and pains, it was Mycroft he reached for. And one day, Mycroft reached back. My first son hefted my second into his arms and looked into his eyes only to find he understood what was in there. And I understood as well: parents are but sentinels, and siblings are the gifts we give our children.

My son is gone now, his brother once again an only child. Who will be our lodestone?


End file.
